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The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe

THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. AT LENGTH I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled -- but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile NOW was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point -- this Fortunato -- although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian MILLIONAIRES. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen , was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

I said to him -- "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he, "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible ? And in the middle of the carnival?"

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."

"Amontillado!"

"I have my doubts."

"Amontillado!"

"And I must satisfy them."

"Amontillado!"

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me" --

"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."

"Come let us go."

"Whither?"

"To your vaults."

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement Luchesi" --

"I have no engagement; come."

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted . The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon; and as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance , one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

"The pipe," said he.

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls."

He turned towards me and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication .

"Come," I said, with decision, we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi" --

"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."

"True -- true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily -- but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."

"And I to your long life."

He again took my arm and we proceeded.

"These vaults," he said, are extensive."

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great numerous family."

"I forget your arms."

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."

"And the motto?"

"Nemo me impune lacessit."

"Good!" he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said: see it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough" --

"It is nothing" he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement -- a grotesque one.

"You do not comprehend?" he said.

"Not I," I replied.

"Then you are not of the brotherhood."

"How?"

"You are not of the masons."

"Yes, yes," I said "yes! yes."

"You? Impossible! A mason?"

"A mason," I replied.

"A sign," he said.

"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.

"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."

"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains piled to the vault overhead , in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.

"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi" --

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered . A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain. from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist . Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is VERY damp. Once more let me IMPLORE you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."

"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.

"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was NOT the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided , I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated -- I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs , and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I reechoed -- I aided -- I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said --

"Ha! ha! ha! -- he! he! -- a very good joke indeed -- an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo -- he! he! he! -- over our wine -- he! he! he!"

"The Amontillado!" I said.

"He! he! he! -- he! he! he! -- yes, the Amontillado . But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."

"Yes," I said "let us be gone."

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!"

"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud --

"Fortunato!"

No answer. I called again --

"Fortunato!"

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick -- on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.

In pace requiescat!

THE BLUE JAR by Isak Dinesen

There was once an
immensely rich old Englishman who had been a courtier and a councillor
to the Queen and who now, in his old age, cared for nothing but
collecting ancient blue china. To that end he travelled to Persia,
Japan and China, and he was everywhere accompanied by his daughter, the
Lady Helena. It happened, as they sailed in the Chinese Sea, that the
ship caught fire on a still night, and everybody went into the
lifeboats and left her. In the dark and the confusion the old peer was
separated from his daughter. Lady Helena got upon deck late, and found
the ship quite deserted. In the last moment a young English sailor
carried her down into a lifeboat that had been forgotten. To the two
fugitives it seemed as if fire was following them from all sides, for
thephosphorescence played in the dark sea, and, as they looked up, a
falling star ran across the sky, as if it was going to drop into the
boat. They sailed for nine days, till they were picked up by a Dutch
merchantman, and came home to England.The old lord had
believed his daughter to be dead. He now wept with joy, and at once
took her off to a fashionable watering-place so that she might recover
from the hardships she had gone through. And as he thought it must be
unpleasant to her that a young sailor, who made his bread in the
merchant service, should tell the world that he had sailed for nine
days alone with a peer’s daughter, he paid the boy a fine sum, and made
him promise to go shipping in the other hemisphere and never come back.
"For what," said the old nobleman, "would be the good of that?"

When Lady Helena
recovered, and they gave her the news of the Court and of her family,
and in the end also told her how the young sailor had been sent away
never to come back, they found that her mind had suffered from her
trials, and that she cared for nothing in all the world. She would not
go back to her father’s castle in its park, nor go to Court, nor travel
to any gay town of the continent. The only thing which she now wanted
to do was to go, like her father before her, to collect rare blue
china. So she began to sail, from one country to the other, and her
father went with her.

In her search she told
the people, with whom she dealt, that she was looking for a particular
blue color, and would pay any price for it. But although she bought
many hundred blue jars and bowls, she would always after a time put
them aside and say: "Alas, alas, it is not the right blue." Her father,
when they had sailed for many years, suggested to her that perhaps the
color which she sought did not exist. "0 God, Papa," said she, "how can
you speak so wickedly? Surely there must be some of it left from the
time when all the world was blue."

Her two old aunts in
England implored her to come back, still to make a great match. But she
answered them: "Nay, I have got to sail. For you must know, dear aunts,
that it is all nonsense when learned people tell you that the seas have
got a bottom to them. On the contrary, the water, which is the noblest
of the elements, does, of course, go all through the earth, so that our
planet really floats in the ether, like a soap bubble. And there, on
the other hemisphere, a ship sails, with which I have got to keep pace.
We two are like the reflection of one another, in the deep sea, and the
ship of which I speak is always exactly beneath my own ship, upon the
opposite side of the globe. You have never seen a big fish swimming
underneath a boat, following it like a dark-blue shade in the water.
But in that way this ship goes like the shadow of my ship, and I draw
it to and fro wherever I go, as the moon draws the tides, all through
the bulk of the earth. If I stopped sailing, what would those poor
sailors who made their bread in the merchant service do? But I shall
tell you a secret," she said. "In the end my ship will go down, to the
centre of the globe, and at the very same hour the other ship will sink
as well - for people call it sinking, although I can assure you that
there is no up and down in the sea—and there, in the midst of the
world, we two shall meet."

Many years passed, the
old lord died and lady Helena became old and deaf, but she still
sailed. Then it happened, after the plunder of the summer palace of the
Emperor of China, that a merchant brought her a very old blue jar. The
moment she set eyes on it she gave a terrible shriek, "There it is!"
she cried. "I have found it at last. This is the true blue. Oh, how
light it makes one. Oh, it is as fresh as a breeze, as deep as a deep
secret, as full as I say not what?’ With trembling hands she held the
jar to her bosom, and sat for six hours sunk in contemplation of it.
Then she said to her doctor and her lady-companion: "Now I can die. And
when I am dead you will cut out my heart and lay it in the blue jar.
For then everything will be as it was then. All shall be blue round me,
and in the midst of the blue world my heart will be innocent and free,
and will beat gently, like a wake that sings, like the drops that fall
from an oar blade." A little later she asked them: "Is it not a sweet
thing to think that, if only you have patience, all that has ever been,
will come back to you?" Shortly afterwards the old lady died.

COMMENTARY

One of the characteristics of the literature of our time is a revived interest in myth, legend,and folk fairy tales. These stories, beginning as tales transmitted orally and later set down in print, raise intriguing questions. Why do they persist, what is the source of their power, and how do they assert their claim to attention upon succeeding generations? Even if we are unlucky enough to come from

homes where stories are not told and reading is not valued, these archetypal plots and charactersinsinuate their way into our consciousness. One does not have to read the book to know the fates of

Snow White and Cinderella. In fact, the most vivid and enduring images of these characters may notderive from literary experience at all but rather from such popular cultural phenomena as the animatedcartoons of Walt Disney.

Often dependent on coincidence for plot development and the supernatural for conflictresolution, these tales may at first seem to be dream images summoned up from our racial memory.Whatever their source, they have proved to be an inspiration both to the writer seeking new sources ofliterary power and the critic searching for analytical tools with which to approach the work of art.For the instructor attracted to the subject, this anthology offers a number of works forclass consideration. “Jonah” and “The Frog Prince” are obvious places to begin. Uses of these materialsby the modern author, self-conscious and easily accessible to students, will be found in D. H.Lawrence’s “The Rocking-Horse Winner,” Thomas Hardy’s “Tony Kytes the Arch Deceiver,” andRobert Coover’s “The Magic Poker.” The teacher wanting a purer example of the modern fairy talemay wish to assign Isak Dinesen’s “The Blue Jar.”

The omniscient narrator adopts the coolly remote yet strangely magical tone characteristicof fairy tales: “There was once [upon a time] an immensely rich old Englishman. . . .” Character andsetting, as in much oral literature, are subordi nated to a strong narrative line. The reader, or auditor, hasthe sense that continual retelling has burnished this tale, leaving a basic action that, while enigmatic,seems mysteriously charged with meaning.

Readers of fairy tales will recognize familiar plot devices. The lady of high degree, treatedcruelly by fate and believed dead, is miraculously restored to life. Her deepest wish is thwarted byothers who mean well but misunderstand her nature. Set free to begin her quest by the death of a parent,she is torn between two possible courses of action. They are symbolized by characters so brisklysketched as to be almost allegorical: in this instance, two old aunts and a common merchant sailor. Shemust singlemindedly search to fulfill her destiny, but that intensity of life will lead to her death.Bruno Bettelheim, in his study of fairy tales cited below, observes that “the delight weexperience when we allow ourselves to respond to a fairy tale, the enchantment we feel, comes notfrom the psychological meaning of the tale (although this contributes to it) but from its literaryqualities—the tale itself as a work of art” (p. 12). Dinesen’s artistry in “The Blue Jar” lies in the wayshe stimulates the reader’s imagination. Her tale brilliantly illustrates the axiom that what is omittedfrom a short story is as important as what is included. Given the meager account of the Lady Helena’sactions, readers must infer the sum total of her spiritual life. How completely they are able to do that isan index both to the story’s success and their skills as readers.

Once students grasp the story’s method, they are usually keen to make manifest throughdiscussion what is latent in the narrative. To begin, students might be asked to supply an answer to thequestion in the text asked by the father: “For what would be the good of that?” The question leads to aconsideration of the father’s motivation in sending away the sailor, and the conflict in the Lady Helenabetween her obedience to her father and her need to pursue her destiny.

The nature of that destiny offers another avenue of inquiry. For the Lady Helena, theexperience in the lifeboat with the merchant sailor, an event consecrated by the falling star, hasevidently proved to be an awakening. The plot device is familiar from countless romances: anaristocratic young woman is forced by circumstances to reassess the character of a commoner she hasbeen schooled to disdain. With a stroke of artistic genius, Dinesen tells nothing of the nine days in thelifeboat and allows the reader to imagine the nature and the intensity of that experience.The Lady Helena is destined to spend her life searching for the Other, the secret sharerwithout whom her existence is but half a life. The story is, in a sense, the dramatization of the famouspassage on love in Plato’s Symposium: “Each of us when separated is but the indenture of a man,having one side only like a flat fish, and he is always looking for his other half. . . . For the intenseyearning which each of them has toward the other does not appear to be the desire of intercourse, but ofsomething else which the soul desires and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtfulpresentiment.”

As for the blue jar, many students may feel it is the symbol of the union of the two“fugitives,” the emblem of the love the Lady Helena experienced with her soulmate during the ninedays in the limitless ocean “when all the world was blue.”FURTHER READINGhttp://www.dis.dk/kultur/karenb/baggrund.e.htmlBettelheim, Bruno. The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales. New York:Alfred A. Knopf, 1976.Hannah, Donald. “In Memoriam Karen Blixen: Some Aspects of Her Attitude to Life.” SewaneeReview 71 (1963): 585-604.Landry, M. “Anecdote as Destiny: Isak Dinesen and the Story-Teller.” Massachusetts Review 19(1978): 389-406.Pelensky, Olga Anastasia. Isak Dinesen: The Life and Imagination of a Seducer. Athens, OH: OhioUniversity Press, 1991.Thurman, Judith. Isak Dinesen: Life of a Storyteller. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997.

The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell

The Most Dangerous Game," an adventure tale that pits two notorious hunters against one another in a life-and-death competition, is the story for which Richard Connell is best remembered. First published in 1924, the story has been frequently anthologized as a classic example of a suspenseful narrative loaded with action. Connell's story raises questions about the nature of violence and cruelty and the ethics of hunting for sport.http://fiction.eserver.org/short/the_most_dangerous_game.html

A Sound of Thunder by Ray Bradbury

On the eve of an American presidential election, a party of rich businessmen undertake a time travel safari to the past to hunt dinosaurs. While the organizers have taken every precaution to minimize the impact of the hunting party on the past, one member violates the rules and leaves the designated path.

The long June twilight faded into night. Dublin lay enveloped in darkness but for the dim light of the moon that shone through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the streets and the dark waters of the Liffey. Around the beleaguered Four Courts the heavy guns roared. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spasmodically, like dogs barking on lone farms. Republicans and Free Staters were waging civil war.

On a rooftop near O'Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders was slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student, thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a man who is used to looking at death.

He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and, taking a flask of whiskey from his pocket, he took a short drought. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk.

Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left.

Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the street.

He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen--just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.

Just then an armored car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street, fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the gray monster.

Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, her head covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car. She was pointing to the roof where the sniper lay. An informer.

The turret opened. A man's head and shoulders appeared, looking toward the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward the side street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the gutter.

Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stooped to pick the rifle up. He couldn't lift it. His forearm was dead. "I'm hit," he muttered.

Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain--just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off.

Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet, and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. the arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.

Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound. A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the ends with his teeth.

Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain.

In the street beneath all was still. The armored car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunner's head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman's corpse lay still in the gutter.

The sniper lay still for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof coverd his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do it. Then he thought of a plan.

Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward over the parapet, until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap clipped down into the street. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.Crawling quickly to his feet, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearly silhouetted against the western sky.

The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards--a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the report and his arm shook with the recoil. Then when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowly falling forward as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber's shop beneath and then clattered on the pavement.

Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.

The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust of battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody.

He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand, and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his feet. The revolver went off with a concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper's head. He was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered from his mind and he laughed. Taking the whiskey flask from his pocket, he emptied it a drought. He felt reckless under the influence of the spirit. He decided to leave the roof now and look for his company commander, to report. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the skylight to the house underneath.

When the sniper reached the laneway on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot, whoever he was. He wondered did he know him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered around the corner into O'Connell Street. In the upper part of the street there was heavy firing, but around here all was quiet.

The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. He threw himself face downward beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.

Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother's face.

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